Bring Him Home
by PM Addict
Summary: Set in Mockingjay after the bombing of District 13 by the Capitol. Katniss cannot continue taping propo's as the burden of how Snow is using Peeta against her is too much for her to bear. These are the thoughts of those witnessing the breakdown of the Mockingjay. Written for Prompts In Panem, round 4, day 7-envy.


Disclaimer: I own nothing.

The tears roll down her cheeks without her realizing she was crying. The perfectly sickly-sweet scent of the immaculate roses have filled her lungs and is slowly choking her. She gasps for air as the sobs uncontrollably take over her body. Everyone around her stares in awe, not knowing how to react. Their _Mockingjay_, is falling apart before their very eyes, crumbling to her feet as her pain consumes her and there they stand helpless, having no idea as to how to help.

_God on high _

_Hear my prayer _

_In my need _

_You have always been there _

_He is young _

_He is afraid _

_Let him rest _

_Heaven blessed. _

She prayed to a higher power that she wasn't even sure existed or that she even deserved to turn towards. As a victor of the Hunger Games, she wasn't without sin, but at this point, she desperately needed to hold on to something, anything that might offer a tiny bit of hope.

Lost in visions of a floor splattered with blood and the sound of what can only be a boot colliding with flesh, her senses are overwhelmed and cannot hear the others trying to reach out to her. Instead her own words dance around in her head, vows to protect the most beautiful, selfless person she has ever known, he who loved her unconditionally, he whom she failed time and time again causing him nothing but pain. Him, to whom she could never confess her love even though she well knew it would have given him great joy. The boy to whom she showed nothing but her true selfish and proud nature. Him, who looked at her as if she were the sun, the stars and the moon.

He is so young, young and beautiful with a heart of gold. If only he could have loved someone as good as himself, someone who could make him happy and take joy in the same things he did. Someone who would be willing to give it all up like and shower him with love and attention, gift him with children, the family he dream of having. Out of everyone she knew (besides her sister, of course), **_he_** deserves happiness, a good life, a peaceful life. Maybe then she wouldn't be burdened with this intense feeling of guilt that is so profound, she sleeps, breathes and lives _him_. Guilt and longing and… heartache at the thought of him hurting, cold and alone and in pain…at the thought of never hearing his voice again, getting lost in those insanely blue eyes that spoke the words his mouth constantly held back because he knew that in her emotional awkwardness they made her uncomfortable. Sad at never feeling his strong arms wrap around her and not only making her feel safe and wanted, but ten feet tall and brave enough to face the world and all its perils. It is not lost on her that as she realizes that with each day that passes, he slips further and further away so does all hope.

So tired of pretending, of hiding her emotions, she lets the agony flow and seeks solace from the only other person who could understand what losing such a wonderful human being would mean to this decrepit world. She runs into her mentor's arms and he wraps them around her in a tight embrace. The Games bonded all three together, a connection that might even rival that among children and their parents. A bind shared through the shed of blood, fear and survival. Only they know what it really means to be a Victor of District 12.

_Bring him home. _

_Bring him home._

She repeats to him like a prayer.

_Bring him home._

He thinks and wishes with all of his heart.

_He's like the son I might have known _

_If God had granted me a son. _

He loves these two kids as if they were his own children much to his surprise. He'd made it a mantra of his to never get attached to his tributes seeing as they never survived the arena. Besides the fact that anyone close to a Victor becomes a walking target. Yet, she is so much like himself: strong, hungry, closed off to the world only to be made weak by the very strength that has enabled her to survive.

The boy…how can anyone not love that boy. He is all heart, heart of gold, noble and naive, despite having grown with such a difficult childhood. One would not imagine the violence with which he was raised given his gentle disposition. Loyal and selfless to the point of stupidity, forgoing his own survival. He's often wondered how Sweetheart could be so unaffected by the boy. Maybe it was all those years with very little to eat that had indeed affected her brain, because that boy…he works his way your heart.

Like the son he might have wanted at one point in his life, before his view on humanity was corrupted. The son he disappointed and abandoned. He promised to keep the girl safe and alive and he did but her sanity and the kid's well-being were sacrificed in the process. He feels nauseated thinking back to those moments before the Quell, when he had the opportunity to come clean with the kid. Tell him about the plans and the impending Rebellion. After all, his tribute was an expert liar, he'd have been able to keep up with the façade. Look after the girl while keeping himself alive and maybe even be astute enough to get himself and his love out of the arena. They'd both be here right now. The kid would be a soldier for Thirteen and she'd be the brooding Mockingjay and this poor, pathetic alcoholic wouldn't be consumed by the guilt, the overwhelming guilt that haunts him day and night. He gave up one child for another and that grief will follow him to the grave.

_The summer dies _

_One by one _

_How soon they fly _

_On and on _

_And I am old _

_And will be gone. _

He needs a drink. How simple it would be lose himself in a bottle although if only for a little while, become numb to everything around him and forget about reality and the pain. Damn 13 and their prohibition laws. When he's drunk he doesn't cry and crying reminds him how human and vulnerable he is. He notices the sun has shifted to a different angle meaning the summer is coming to an end, taking with it all sense of hope, as the weeks since the explosions have become months and the boy continues to slip through their fingers.

_Bring her peace _

_Bring her joy _

_He is young _

_He is only a boy _

_You can take _

_You can give _

_Let him be _

_Let him live. _

The tears fall from his eyes with no attempt from his part to stop them. Why bother trying to conceal his misery, everyone in 13 thinks he's lost his mind.

**"IT TAKES TEN TIME AS LONG TO PUT YOURSELF BACK TOGETHER AS IT DOES TO FALL APART."**

He told her a few nights ago, while they were keeping each other company during the bombings. He had noticed she was on edge but didn't want to nudge her given how he is not too far off that same precipice himself. And now, as a tormented observant of his friend begging her equally afflicted mentor, for her lost love, he thinks back to all _he's_ lost himself: his family, his own mentor, his innocence, and his liberty. His free will nullified since he is nothing but a pawn in their game. A doll passed around from hand to hand, each one taking their own piece of his soul. Drifting from person to person, subjected not only to their lust, but the degenerate gluttony to possess him, that seems to be the drive of the "good" people of the Capitol. To possess, to collect, to accumulate, to hoard; it radiates off their skin, it is the glimmer in their eyes, the all-consuming need of _more_ that defiles the humanity of most Capitolites. To survive he grew numb, desensitizing himself to everything and everyone.

Until she came along and filled the darkness in his mind with her gentle light. His quiet little tribute, with long chestnut hair and emerald green eyes as deep as the sea, so gentle and soft with a fragile mind. Two lost souls from District 4, struggling to stay afloat. Both mutually helping one another fight the demons that threaten to drown them, providing the necessary faith to believe that one day they will be able to love one another without fear and sail into the sunset.

Life has taken so much from all of them already, they deserve the opportunity to just be, to love, to live. With one more silent prayer, he takes a deep breath and lets the grief take over.

_If I die _

_Let me die _

_Let him live_

Standing there among the others, the mentor, the other Victor, the camera crew, his eyes only see her and feels like he breaks with her. For every tear she sheds there is new fissure in his heart.

_Bring him home._

She repeats once more.

He'd given up on her since before she left for the Quell, despite that kiss she'd volunteered in her kitchen, or any other they might have shared together, since she arrived in Thirteen. She is not his, never has been. Her heart and apparently her soul, belongs to another.

All this time, he's tried to hold on the notion that no matter what she felt for either of them, she was his soul mate. One might even say he held to his idea quite obsessively. But the scene unraveling before him tells of a different story. He sees a woman calling for the man she loves and sadly the man is not him.

He shares a background with her, a heritage given to them from the father's that fate would have them lose on the same day, in the same mine, thus becoming the heads of their respective households, a responsibility too grand for two so young. Yet their friendship did not come from a mutual attraction for the other's company. It was born out of a need for what the other had or could assist in providing. She was so young and alone, without a parental figure to lean on for guidance and encouragement. He at least had his mother. He filled that gap even though he is only two years older. Companionship didn't come until the need for survival had been met and even then it was due more to how similar in temperament they were. They spoke the same language, breathed the same air, shared the same hunger, hell, they even resembled each other physically. They weren't the two half's of a whole, they were the** same** half. And that remained true until she left to her first games. He understood what it was to be just like her but the Baker understood her _essence_, _who_ she was and _why_, he knew _what_ she needed without her having to ask. And he was willing to provide it, walk away from anything, and walk into anything, give it all up for her, _everything_ for her, despite being so different from one another.

_Bring him home_.

No matter how hard he tried, he can't bring himself to hate the Bread Boy. He was-is indeed good, with a heart of gold. Even his little sister likes him. And more important of all, his best friend loves him and she wouldn't give her heart to just anyone, even if he can't help the pang of jealousy that stings his heart. Poor kid has suffered enough to still have to deal with the wrath of the envious best friend. Seeing her broken and defeated, the one girl he always believed was indestructible, is enough to make him determined to_ bring him home_ to _her_, for her. The Baker can make her happy and maybe, once he knows that she is indeed well, he can finally let her go and move on.

_Bring him home._

'How touching' she thought as she looks over what little footage the camera crew was able to capture. A bereaved girlfriend in agony over her imprisoned lover. That wouldn't do the cause any good. They needed the _Mockingjay_ to move the masses from the Districts and storm the Capitol in unison. Only then will she be able to come across as the fearless leader determined to defeat the tyrant that forced her (and her people) to live underground like a rodent, and claim Panem for herself-

For her people.

_The Star-crossed Lovers_ from Twelve were able to give their district not one but two victors. Maybe a reunion might be, not only a boost to the cause, but also earn some points in her favor for when she takes over the presidency. Why hadn't she thought of that before? The rescue mission will have to be immediate, who knows what the decrepit old man has done to the boy, such a handsome face, too!

All the pieces to the puzzle seem to be falling into place. Everyone is exactly where they should be just like she _wants_ and _needs_ them to be. The game is not over, only now she controls the pieces.


End file.
